Assassin's Revenge

by Ward Larsen

  This had a ring of truth to Slaton—if Park truly was a high-ranking SSD officer, that was precisely how he would operate. Details regarding shipments would have been arranged in quiet meetings, no traces left behind. Slaton, however, didn’t need that kind of evidence. The greater picture was clear enough: Tarek El-Masri had been terminally ill, financially stressed, and determined to leave something to his family.

  He had also been desperately fearful of being double-crossed.

  Which, as it turned out, had been all but a premonition.

  FIFTY-THREE

  After completing his second run-through of the files, Slaton leaned back in the worn office chair. He rubbed his hands over his face and studied the high arches. As so often happened, the initial elation of getting a breakthrough gave way to new channels of doubt.

  He was struck by two inconsistencies in El-Masri’s version of events.

  To begin, he wondered why North Korea would have any interest in acquiring highly enriched uranium. That country’s nuclear capability had long been established, so where was the gain? On a lesser scale, he pondered the wisdom of extracting small caches of material from multiple shipments. In at least two cases—the removal of material from a research lab in Ghana, and another in Kazakhstan—it appeared that stealing a greater amount of material would have been possible. The risk of so many small thefts seemed unnecessarily risk-laden.

  There had to be answers to both questions.

  All the same, Slaton remained convinced. Too many verifiable facts aligned with El-Masri’s confessional. Mordechai’s initial research of the thefts. The Asians encountered last night. The targeting of both El-Masri and Mordechai. It all fell into place like tumblers in a lock.

  For Slaton, there was but one overriding question: How will this help me find Christine and Davy?

  The sound of voices in righteous harmony drifted up the hallway. Choir practice in the main vestibule. He racked his brain, wondering how to proceed. Did the North Koreans know who he was? Did they know how he’d gotten involved? He had to assume they did. What about Christine and Davy? Did Park know where they were at that moment?

  Slaton felt a rush of despair. He could hold his own against a gang of amateurs in a public park. Even a small assault team.

  But I can’t take on an entire country.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, shutting out the screen in front of him. The sacred sounds streamed up the hall.

  All at once, Slaton realized what he had to do.

  He removed the flash drive, did a quick cleanup of the computer. He composed a brief than-you note to Sister Magda, and promised that he would try to return someday to repair the window.

  Slaton walked into a hallway washed in the harmonies of “Ave Maria.” Near the end of the corridor he encountered a gilded mirror. He glanced at himself once, and thought, I need a haircut. A memory was triggered. Pizza on a red-and-white checkerboard table. The sea in the distance. And much more.

  So much more.

  Outside the church he encountered a dry wind and bright sun. Slaton’s plan going forward was fast crystallizing. He knew where to begin. With a final look over his shoulder, he saw high clouds breezing past the twin onion-domed spires.

  And he was thankful.

  The flash drive in his pocket had indeed been a godsend.

  * * *

  Three blocks away from the church, Slaton turned into a small store that sold a bit of everything. He purchased a throwaway phone for cash and had it activated by the time he reached the first crosswalk.

  The number he dialed, as far as he knew, was unique—a contact created exclusively for his use. He let it ring twice, then killed the call. He walked another two blocks, then paused in a square with a distant view of the river. The return call came as he was buying a gelato—not because he had a sweet tooth, but because he liked the area, in a tactical sense, and needed a reason to loiter. Ever so subtly, Slaton’s mindset was shifting. After so many days of reacting, he felt the brace of something better.

  “Hello,” he said, after taking his change from the vendor and turning away.

  “How are you?” asked a female voice, not insincerely.

  “I’ve got a problem. So do you. I assume this is being recorded?”

  “Of course.”

  “I have information, something I think you’d consider critical. It involves a man named Park Hai-joon, North Korean—I’ve been told he’s a high-ranking SSD officer.”

  A pause, then, “All right. I’d like to hear what you—”

  “Not like this. I’m in Germany. I need to meet with someone you trust as soon as possible.”

  “Let me call you right back.”

  Slaton ended the connection a second time. The phone vibrated after seventy-six seconds.

  “Frankfurt,” the woman said. “Eight o’clock, Alte Oper.”

  Slaton checked the time, hesitated. He could easily get to Frankfurt in half that. Nine hours seemed an eternity. But what choice did he have?

  “All right … I’ll be there.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  The wind had risen, and so correspondingly had the seas. Eight-foot swells on the beam put a cyclic sway in the boat’s progress. Boutros had lowered the speed, but at least two of his men—Saleem and Rafiq—were feeling the effects. Neither had come above for hours, and he doubted they were fit for a turn at the helm. Truth be told, Boutros himself could not deny a minor unease in the pit of his stomach.

  Sami appeared from the companionway, looking carefree as ever. By some quirk of biology, he had somehow acclimated more quickly than anyone.

  “I saw a high water level in the bilge earlier,” said Boutros. “I’m not sure if the pumps are keeping up.”

  Sami looked at him blankly. “Bilge?”

  Boutros sighed. “Never mind, I’ll take care of it. I’d like you to relieve me soon. I need to show you how to run the boat in heavy seas—you’ll have to steer manually.”

  “Of course. Is there time for me to go below and pray?”

  “Yes, go ahead.”

  “What is the direction of the qiblah?” Sami asked.

  Boutros checked the compass and pointed in the direction of Mecca.

  Sami nodded and went below.

  Boutros’ eyes swept a horizon falling slowly to darkness. Early yesterday he’d seen a distant iceberg—a hazard he’d certainly never worried about in the Persian Gulf. Yet today the air was noticeably warmer, and he could see a distant thunderstorm to the south. He’d known running a boat across the Pacific was going to be a challenge. Albatross was slow and cumbersome, the ocean endless, and his crew was more interested in prayer than sea states. Yet so far the weather had cooperated, and it was forecast to remain relatively calm. There had been no mechanical troubles, nor any word that their mission had been uncovered. So far, a quiet passage through civilized waters.

  But how long can it last?

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later Sami took over the helm. Boutros went below to find an unsteady Rafiq in the workroom. He was bent over the workbench with a screwdriver in hand.

  “How are you feeling?” Boutros asked.

  “Well enough to work,” Rafiq replied. “I am checking the integrity of the firing squibs.”

  “Squibs?”

  “Small detonators that will initiate the explosion.”

  Boutros nodded thoughtfully. “Is that not Saleem’s job?”

  “He is in his bunk, feeling the seas. He was able to finish modeling the shape for the explosive charge. There is little left to do until we receive the final shipment. When will we reach the island?”

  “If the weather gets no worse, two days,” Boutros said. He saw unease in Rafiq’s gaze. “Something is bothering you.”

  The boat lurched, and Rafiq closed his eyes for an instant before saying, “I didn’t sleep well last night. It was the seas mostly, yet … I found myself thinking about our partners in this mission.”

  “Partners? You mean the N
orth Koreans?”

  A nod. “Do you trust them?”

  “I see no reason not to. They have so far kept to our agreement.”

  “Something about it bothers me,” Rafiq said. “Our reasons for being here are clear. We have been desperate to hit back since being driven from our caliphate. This is a bold strike that will truly hurt the Americans. But the North Koreans—what do they gain?”

  Boutros pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I admit, I have wondered the same thing. The North Koreans have been at war with America longer than you or I have been alive, yet in recent years there has been talk of reconciliation. Change like that does not come without dissent, factions inside the government who think differently. Individuals who have an interest in keeping things as they are.”

  “Park?”

  “He runs their intelligence service. That gives him a great deal of latitude. And Chairman Kwon—who can say what is in such a man’s mind. Korea is a fractious place, and those divisions have granted us a golden opportunity. You and I can only trust that our benefactors will be on this island, waiting with what we need. The question of why it has all come to pass—I leave that for God.”

  Rafiq nodded. “Yes, I suppose you are right.”

  The boat lurched again, even more severely, and both men reached for hand holds to steady themselves.

  Rafiq still looked uncertain.

  “Is that your only concern?” Boutros asked. “The North Koreans?”

  “I am curious. This island we will visit—is it far from our target?”

  “I expect another three days at sea after our stop.”

  “Three days more. A lot could happen in that time. I wonder … can you put these places on the electronic map near the helm?”

  “Of course. I’ll show you later how to change the settings to look ahead.”

  A call came from above, Sami shouting something down the stairwell. “My presence is required,” Boutros said.

  * * *

  Rafiq watched his commander go, then finished testing the final squib. That done, he found himself staring at the great bundle of wires before him. He thought the creation pointless, but Saleem had spent hours on it last night—stripping insulation, braiding pairs, twisting connections.

  The wires, twenty-one in all, had come from a half-dozen spools: among them were three different gauges and six distinct colors. With something near glee, Saleem had woven what looked like a harness around the explosives chamber. He’d plugged leads into functionless fittings, connected others to dead batteries. Two wind-up analog alarm clocks had multiple connections. Saleem had brought everything from Syria. He referred to it as his “bird’s nest,” an innovation he’d developed as a cheap but effective countermeasure against tampering.

  Over the course of the war in Syria, dozens of Saleem’s IEDs had been uncovered by enemy forces. Most were simply predetonated, which invariably caused some kind of damage. Yet he swore that not a single one of the infidel explosives experts had ever been brave enough to try to disarm one of his bombs. By the end of the conflict, he proudly claimed the method as something of a calling card. When Saleem first saw what the Koreans had provided for this job—a simple single-action trigger, requiring but one cut to disarm—he was doubly happy he’d come prepared. He committed to building one final nest—the most complex ever for the caliphate’s most magnificent weapon. Given Saleem’s enthusiasm, Boutros had approved the idea. Rafiq, a mechanical engineer who’d spent years learning to create clean and efficient designs, thought it an inglorious application of skill.

  A chanting cadence drifted through Albatross’ diesel-infused lower decks: Saleem was praying yet again. Rafiq stepped back from the bench and walked to the tiny porthole across the workshop. He looked outside pensively, his eyes almost level with the riotous sea. The thought that had been brewing in his head for weeks grew more insistent. Since that morning in Suruç when the letter had finally caught up with him.

  A correspondence he’d given up on more than a year ago.

  As he stared at the sea, Rafiq knew he had but one course. He would do his job in the coming days. He would make this weapon work. But he would also allow himself to look beyond that.

  It might be for nothing, he allowed. But today I am going to look at that map.

  * * *

  Christine chased her son through the lobby breezeway, towels wrapped around them both. Davy giggled as their wet flip-flops made squeaking noises on the tile. Christine saw a familiar face behind the front desk—the young woman smiled understandingly.

  Davy led her in a merry pursuit, past the little-used business center, and then a faux library where wall-to-wall bookcases were stocked with weighty classic volumes. Without a dust jacket in sight, it seemed less a literary hub than the contrivance of some interior decorator.

  With a skittering right turn at the first hallway, Davy raced toward their room. He bumbled to a stop in front of their door, both hands on the handle. “SpongeBob?” he said expectantly. He’d been reveling in the extensive channel selection on the room’s TV—another indulgence lost when cruising the Seven Seas.

  “First we read two books,” she said, suspecting he would fall asleep after an active morning. Thankfully Davy hadn’t outgrown his naps.

  She swiped the key card, but didn’t see the usual green light or hear a click. She was about to try again when the door cracked open slightly. Davy pushed through and ran into the room. Christine followed him for two steps.

  She stopped cold when she saw three Asian men.

  One was very muscular. He stood a bit crookedly and had bruises on his face.

  The other two were perfectly straight. They had guns.

  Davy came back to her without saying a word. She took half a step to put him behind her hip.

  Protecting.

  The door behind them closed.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Slaton despised the waiting.

  Always the waiting.

  He had caught a standard train to Munich, followed by a high-speed to Frankfurt. He arrived four hours before his scheduled meeting. With time to kill, he went over El-Masri’s files a third time in an internet café. After that he got two hours’ sleep in a cheap rooming house. The previous night had left its mark on his clothing, and he decided replacing everything would be more efficient than scrubbing under faucets. At a second-hand store he purchased a tan shirt, dark green cargo pants, a light jacket, and was lucky to find a comfortable pair of hiking boots. He also selected one pair of heavy-knit socks. Thick socks were standard for any mission—add rocks or a can of beer, and you had an instant weapon.

  He arrived at the scheduled rendezvous thirty minutes early.

  The Alte Oper, or Old Opera House, stands proud in its Renaissance reincarnation. The original house was destroyed during World War II, bombed to the point of being anointed Germany’s “most beautiful ruin.” The replacement, however, was true to its parent, a three-story rectangular affair adorned with all the frescos and mosaics expected of a grand house, and a roof overseen by a full-scale rendition of Pegasus in bronze. Surrounded by gardens and a wide plaza, twin circular fountains stood sentry at the main entrance. And it was here, between dueling cascades of uplit water, that Slaton approached his contact.

  Her eight o’ clock profile, even in silhouette, he recognized instantly.

  The woman he’d talked to on the phone.

  “You made good time,” he said, approaching her from behind.

  “I was already in the neighborhood,” Anna Sorensen replied, turning to his voice as if she’d known he was there.

  Slaton’s eyes swept the sidewalks before settling on her. “No you weren’t.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Your clothes are wrinkled, you’re bleary-eyed. And nine hours? That’s exactly what it would take to drive from Langley to Andrews, hop on an agency jet, and fly to Frankfurt.”

  She stared at him with something he couldn’t place.

  Slaton hadn�
��t been surprised it was Sorensen who answered his call today. She had, after all, been the one who’d given him the number in the first place—his private emergency line to the CIA. He’d worked with the agency twice in recent years, Sorensen involved on both occasions. In those dealings, he’d always felt she was on his side, some measure of personal trust established. A baseline comfort level.

  Tonight Slaton sensed nothing but tension.

  “Okay,” she admitted, “I was in D.C.”

  “Wouldn’t it have been easier to send me to Berlin, have me walk into the embassy for a secure call? Why drop everything and come here yourself?”

  “Because I can. I’ve been promoted—I’m assistant deputy director, SAD.”

  “Directorate of Operations, Special Activities Division? Congratulations—you’re now officially in the black. Did I have something to do with that?”

  “Those missions where you worked with me … with us … were very successful.”

  “Good. That means you and your agency owe me something.”

  She screwed her face into something unpleasant. Which wasn’t easy. Sorensen was mid-thirties and extremely attractive. Fit and blond, she would have looked right at home in a commercial for a Peloton exercise bike.

  “Tell me where you heard that name,” she said, her eyes drifting to the uplit winged horse above the portico of the opera house.

  “What name?”

  “The one you mentioned in your call—Park Hai-joon.”

  “The fact that you’re asking suggests it’s true—he really is SSD.”

  Sorensen didn’t reply.

  “High-ranking?” he said to the silence.

  Still nothing.

  “Okay, very high-ranking.”

  “He’s the head,” she said.

  It was Slaton’s turn to go quiet. He’d been rehearsing this juncture of the conversation for nine hours, and the decision matrix he’d built was now at its primary branch. He reached into his pocket and extracted the flash drive. He showed it to her, but then made it disappear in his hand with the theatrical flourish of a magician. “Like I promised in my message … there’s a lot of good intel here. But I need guarantees first.”